"Hey, kiddo, time to wake up." A hand nudges my shoulder and I drowsily open my eyes.

"Dad!" I surge forward and embrace him, all sleepiness forgotten.

"Mornin', kiddo. Ready for breakfast?" he asks, hand on my short, blonde curls.

"Yes!"

Dad gets off the bed, and I start to follow.

"Oof!" I look up and realize I've rolled off the bed. And that Dad didn't wake me up. I rub my head unenthusiastically and stand up, wobbling a bit as I throw the thin sheet back over the mattress.

"Circe? Are you awake yet?" calls Mom.

"Yeah! Just barely."

"Okay. Come in here; I've got breakfast ready!"

"Coming!"

I rub the sleep out of my eyes and fumble over to the kitchen, where I can smell the meal: eggs and some of our marinated tuna jerky.

We don't make as much marinated jerky; we have to use more marinade for less jerky, and we could make at least three times as much spiced jerky with the time it takes for those things to soak. We do make them occasionally, though; there's a very small community in the Capitol that just loves them. Otherwise, it's certainly not a cash cow.

I seat myself—Mom's already brought over my chipped-up plate—and then Mom takes her seat. She starts eating.

"Shouldn't we wait for Dad?" I question, poking at my jerky ration.

"Circe, he's exhausted. The least we can do is let him sleep in."

"But that's—"

"Honey, we won't have enough time to get cleaned up and dressed up for… today's event if we don't eat now."

I frown, but she's right. In District 4, the Reaping starts at 8:00 sharp. And Mom and I aren't exactly known for throwing even our everyday clothes on quickly.

I finally start eating the jerky, which is badly over-marinated—of course, that's the only situation where we get to eat our own product—and in a few minutes, Mom's scrubbing the dishes. She tells me to go take a bath, and she'll do my hair when I'm done. Even though my hair is so short that there's really nothing she can do with it.

I head for the bathroom, anyway and look the tub over. I can tell Mom's emptied it out and tried to scrub off some of the marinade we normally keep in there, but it still smells like barbeque and salt.

Regardless, I take my bath and get myself dried off. I take care to throw my natty sleep clothes back on before calling Mom in—I forgot to once, and believe me, I still haven't seen her that freaked-out since. She pops in and brushes my hair, being very careful to give me a perfectly straight part. We exchange a smile, I go to my room, and she closes the bathroom door behind me.

The closet door opens. I would normally wear my sleep clothes on a Saturday, since I rarely leave the jerky factory on the weekend, but since it's the day of the Reaping, I have to dress up nice. Though I certainly don't have a problem with that.

I pull out my only dress—a nice, slightly dirty one that I only wear to the Reaping. It's short-sleeved, but the hem reaches my ankles. The whole dress is off-white, save for a small, pink ribbon at the waistline that's dotted with several off-white, cloth flowers. There's physically nothing wrong with it, but I've been begging my mom to get me a new one since the last Reaping.

Of course, not many people would want to keep what she was wearing the day her friend was called to her death.

Her name was Chania. She would have been fifteen this year, too. We were best friends in school, but when she turned twelve, she started disappearing—coming in late, leaving early, and more often than not she wouldn't show up for school at all. I finally caught up to her a few months after this started, and she didn't hesitate to tell me what was going on.

She was being trained for the Hunger Games. It got her out of school, and she would bring honor and fortune to the district, so she was excited to be part of it. I was a bit scared about it at first; I mean, it's still technically illegal to do such a thing—though the Capitol doesn't seem to mind—and I didn't really want my best friend volunteering for a sick sport like the Games. I let her continue nevertheless.

But last year, when a particularly scrawny-looking twelve-year-old girl was called, Chania volunteered. I was still unsure—the other Career tributes had always gone in at fifteen and sixteen—but the whole reason for Chania's doing this was what she called "a noble purpose". I guess she was happy to keep a sure-to-lose tribute away from the battlefield.

And she did incredibly well for the first part of the Games that year. She was an expert at throwing… well, pretty much anything, and she could always figure out a way to get water, unlike most of the other tributes in desert arena. I thought for sure she was going to win, and she hadn't even had to kill anyone yet.

But then Rowan arrived. He was a cattle-roper from District 10, and he didn't look that much, but he went on to win the 12th Hunger Games. Chania was just another one of his victims, her life taken by his uncuttable noose.

"Circe!" I'm snapped back to the present by Mom's call. "Are you ready yet?"

"Almost!" I zip up the back of the dress I'd rather not look at anymore and fish through the closet for some suitable shoes. The ones with the least scratches—some thin, brown ones—find their way onto my feet, and I shuffle out of my room.

"All right, we should probably get going now," Mom says, walking toward the front door and setting her hand in the hole where a doorknob once was. I check the house clock—it's 7:30—and follow her.

"Is Dad ready?" I ask, looking to see if he's up and about yet.

"He's running late today," Mom answers promptly, swinging the door open. I pout and stomp around behind her. "Circe, be mature. You'll get to see him at lunch once this is over." Still unhappy, I march behind her, shutting the old glass-and-wood door behind me.

It's about the time everyone around here starts heading for the Reaping, and the streets show it. Even Marty, the old dog that somehow totes around his family's four-year-old on his back, is shuffling along in the dirt. Mom and I are caught in the small crowd until the neighborhood ends and the road widens and turns to gravel. The neighborhood crowd breaks up some, but now others from the district are gathering, and I end up having to trudge along in the block of citizens. I blankly imagine I'm in a school of fish before realizing the fish would be traveling much faster.

Eventually, though, we're past the train tracks and the school, and we near the town square.

I think it's quite odd that we call it the town square, it's so blatantly circular. It still has all the goodies a town square would have: a wide open plaza, stores, the Justice Building, even a huge dock most of the saltwater fishing boats tie to. Today the plaza's platform is occupied. Two oversized fish bowls filled with death orders are positioned atop grand pillars, and Mim Clastrop, District 4's representative, is tapping about excitedly with her six-inch-tall heels.

I don't understand the Capitol. There is, of course, the obvious insanity of making children kill each other, but besides being insane, they're just weird. I've seen only the required few Capitol specials on the family television, and I generally don't pay attention to the citizens onscreen, but Mim is an outstanding example of how bizarre the fashions are. She's always talking in that ridiculously high-pitched Capitol accent, and she's always wearing some dress with random portions replaced by conflicting colors. Her poofy hair is dyed an eyesore shade of yellow, and her skin is practically covered in silvery tattoos.

Now that everyone's signed in and situated in his or her correct age group, Mayor Trowbridge, a very short, balding, brown-haired man, steps up to the platform as Mim respectfully steps down, taking a seat next to District 4's three champions. The mayor starts his yearly ramble about the destruction and disasters and the other assorted lovely things leading up to Panem's establishment. He continues on to the rebellion, how foolish the districts were and how much we truly owe the Capitol. He explains the rules of the Hunger Games, which we know all too well, and lists off our previous winners.

There's Mill Holtlem, a well-built male who won the 3rd Games at the age of sixteen.

Next is Lily Atoi, the only female, and very sinister-looking, who dominated the 8th Hunger Games when she was fifteen.

And the last is Ime Enneya, a dark-skinned, less bulky boy than Mill. He won the 10th Games for us when he was sixteen.

Mayor Trowbridge nods and steps back, and Mim clomps up the few steps to the platform eagerly.

"And a happy Hunger Games, all!" she trills in her odd accent. "May every last one of you have the very best of luck! Shall we select the lucky lady now?"

No one really responds, although it's obvious Mim meant it to be a crowd-animator.

Of course, it may have helped if anyone felt it was lucky right now.

Mim taps over to the girls' fish bowl and dips her two-inch-long, purple fingernails to the very bottom of the jar. She pulls out a slip and inhales drastically to read it.

"Circe Heron!"

My heart stops. I should probably start making my way up there, but I can't seem to move.

Did she really call my name? I'm only in there a couple of times. I'm not eighteen. I haven't taken any tessarae. How could it be me? The odds were for me, utterly for me, but somehow one of my slips entered her hand.

The fourteen-year-old crowd has by now parted in front of me, and I numbly move toward the tributes' platform.

How is it me? How did this happen? There's just no way. I'm not supposed to be a part of this. The two little sisters my mom was unable to give birth to weren't supposed to be a part of this, either. How is this happening?

My footsteps thud on the wooden steps, and I look dully out at the world in front of me. The world I would never know again.

Then Mim calls for volunteers.

I think my heart's started back up again. What was I so worried about? This is District 4! We train winners here! Of course no one like me would have to humiliate the district in the Hunger Games. Someone prepared is just about to throw herself in the ring, and I'll run back home free.

But nothing's happening. Why is nothing happening? Where is the female Career tribute from District 4?

My stomach twists horribly when I finally remember.

The mercury poisoning.

A few months ago, a sizeable batch of our freshwater fish was found to contain mercury poisoning. This, of course, wasn't realized until a hundred of the citizens had fallen ill and died. I thought I was unrealistically lucky; no one in my family had eaten any bad fish, and all of the tainted meat was stopped before it was sent to the Capitol, so our town wouldn't get a bed reputation, and we wouldn't lose our business.

But I'm not lucky now. I remember the report, the list of the people regarded as important who died. Trixus Halloway, the most outstanding female Career tribute, as well as the only one old enough to participate this year, was on that list.

And now there's no one left to save me.

I think I'm about to faint. My legs are absolutely locked in place, my pulse is racing, and I'm breathing so heavily I'm sure people as far as the Capitol can hear it. The Capitol… I try to stand up straight and tuck my arms behind my back composedly, so maybe I won't look weak to everyone watching the broadcast, but I'm sure they've already caught enough of my horrified expression to pick up the fact that I'm not exactly pleased about this.

"And the lucky boy!" Mim shrieks enthusiastically, dipping her claws deep into the boys' bowl. She pulls out a name and reads it gleefully. It takes a moment before I register what she's just said.

I'm about to completely break down now. I thought there was no way this could get worse. I thought me going off to my death was the absolute most horrifying thing that could possibly happen today.

But there is District 4's male tribute for the 13th Hunger Games making his way out of the crowd now. Iah Grayling steps onto the platform next to me. I stare, dismayed, at him, and he smiles back dully.

Why? Why is this happening? Why do not only I, but also my best friend have to die? There's no way this can be happening. This is impossible. Neither of us is eighteen, neither of us has ever had to sign up for tessarae. Neither of us deserves this.

How is this possi—

"I volunteer!"

I snap back to attention, and Iah turns to see who's just spoken.

"Thank you," I mutter with as small a sigh of relief I can manage.

I shouldn't have been this worried; after all, Trixus was the only Career to have been killed by the poison outbreak. There are plenty of boys to step in, and one so very thankfully has.

"Think you'll do a better job, eh?" Mim hums. "And your name?"

"Twig Antwerp," the boy announces just as he breaches the edge of the crowd.

I can very well see his name is the most inappropriate name for him you could ever come up with. He does not in any way seem thin or small or snappable; in fact, he doesn't even look like he's in the right age frame for the Hunger Games.

But after a quick confirmation with Mim, he's up on the platform next to me, waving big at the crowd. I think it might be a good idea to wave myself, to look friendly and excited, but in this condition, I'd probably just end up falling over.

The crowd is now cheering wildly for Twig; after all, I'm certainly not going to be the one here to win the Games. Mim treats it as her own applause, bowing and curtsying and almost falling over in those ridiculous shoes of hers. She then walks up to us, and before I know what's going on, Twig and I are whisked away into the Justice Building.

I've never been inside before; it's quite nice, really, and the floor moldings aren't even water-stained. In fact, the floor itself is a nice shade of pale blue, and there's a large, darker blue couch made of soft-looking fabric in the middle of the room that I'm directed to sit on.

Now it's time for the goodbyes. I'm really going to say goodbye to all of these people now. I'm about to leave them all behind for nothing but the Capitol's sick amusement.

The door opens, and I turn to see my mother escorted inside by a Peacekeeper. She takes a seat next to me, and before anything else, we hug tightly.

Now I'm finally crying. This is really happening, isn't it? I'm really going to have to say goodbye to everyone. I'm really going to leave them all here.

Mom starts to loosen her embrace, and my arms drop. Sniffling, I turn to the other side of the couch, expecting to see Dad, but he's not there.

"Where's Dad?" I ask between sobs. "You can't… expect me to believe he's too… sleepy to say goodbye to his… only daughter!" I'm almost screaming now.

Mom looks down sadly.

"Circe," she sighs softly, "you're father… is very sick. He has been for… almost two weeks now." I can only stare at her with disbelief as she continues. "I didn't want to tell you… I thought he was going to get better, but…" She trails off miserably.

Dad's been on death's door for two weeks? How did I not notice? How did I not realize? I guess there's no way I could have known, since I never get to see him…

I look over at Mom, who's just staring at the carpet, afraid to see me as I take this all in. But I'm saying goodbye to her, forever. I can't leave her letting her think I'm upset, that I'll never forgive her for all of these lies. I may not, but it's pointless to let her know that.

"I still love you, Mom," I whisper, hugging her from the side.

"I love you, too, honey," she mumbles. "Ah!" She sits up and feels around her apron's pouch before pulling out a glimmering necklace. It's a silvery chain, with an ornate, silver koi fish surrounded by swirling waves as its centerpiece. I recognize it instantly.

"It's the one you always loved," she recollects quietly, her gaze on the fish. "I always thought I'd give it to you when you got married, but… I think you should have it now." She turns toward me, holding the shimmering thing up in the air. I duck down a bit, and she puts it around my neck. She only has time to kiss me on the forehead before the Peacekeeper comes again to escort her out. Still crying, I stare at the closed door until it swings open again.

"Thank you," a curt voice that could only belong to Laima calls as the door is shut again. I watch her blankly as she makes her way to the couch. She sits for a moment and looks at me. I self-consciously start to rub the tears out of my eyes, but she snatches my hands away from my face before I can manage it.

"What…?"

"Don't rub your eyes," she instructs strictly. "I'm sure there's no way you can keep from crying, but you may as well make sure you don't look like it. If you look weak to the cameras, you won't get any sponsors."

I nod slowly, letting her put my hands to my sides.

"Just wait until the very end and put your face against the couch or something. That shouldn't show as much." Laima sighs and starts to stand up. "You… were always so much better off than my family, even after Hurricane Duncan…"

Hurrican Duncan happened three years ago. It destroyed most of The Tip—which isn't a rare occurrence; The Tip alternates between being the richest and poorest part of District 4 with every hurricane—and it took Laima's mother. I hear she was trying to save the last of her family's goods for the season—it would be incredibly hard for them to live without those—but she couldn't get out in time.

I look at her expectantly as she, for some reason, heads for the door.

"Circe, I hate you, but you'd better not die!" The door slams as she leaves the room, and I'm left to just confusedly look after her.

I've almost managed to stop crying by the time the door opens again. Iah makes his way to the couch.

"Hey," he says.

"Hey." It's surprising how much my voice is cracking right now, even with just one word.

"Circe," he starts, "I'm so sorry."

"It's not your fault," I mumble. "You'd never want this to happen, so why do you need to apologize?"

"I… I should have stayed," he confesses. "Maybe… Maybe we could figure out a way to survive the Games if it were the two of us."

"No. I… I don't think you can stay when someone volunteers, anyway. And," I sigh, "even if that did work, we'd just have to kill each other by the time we reached the end. They wouldn't let two people win the Games, you know."

"You're right. As usual," he adds with a smile much smaller than his normal one.

"Of course I am," I mumble, ending our usual exchange.

He suddenly wraps his hands around mine. "Circe," he starts, sounding urgent all of a sudden but pausing to think before he continues, "I… I don't just want to say goodbye. I… I've never really been sure, and I'm not sure how to say this, but I… I love you. I'm still not sure, but I know at least love you… a little bit…" He starts to lower my hand. "I know it sounds stupid, but…"

"It's… it's okay, Iah. I… kind of love you, too." And before either of us is sure what's going on, we're kissing.

But it's not right. It's not romantic at all.

It's just a bitter goodbye.